Loads of excellent stuff in the blog, but my favorite excerpt is pasted at the bottom. Growing up in Texas, it was unimaginable to pass someone on the street and not say hello, or at least acknowledge their existence. When I went to college in Philadelphia, my surprise at the understood mutual obliviousness was only surpassed my the passerby’s surprise when I chirped out a “Hello” or a “‘Mornin’!”. In Boulder, I attribute this stranger anxiety to all the transplants that have come here from other parts of the country. I still wave, nod, smile, and/or greet any stranger going the other way like always. But for the chronic abusers, I’ve resorted to what our friend Matt refers to as “aggressive friendliness”–direct eye contact, obscenely cheery smile, and an inappropriately loud “HELLO!”. I’ve taken this approach to the lady who walks her dog on exactly the same route every day. She passes us every morning, at exactly the same time I take my daughter to school every day. HELLO! GOOD MORNING! HOW ARE YA?! Once, I got her to glance and eek out a twitch in the corners of her mouth. Most days, she pretends we aren’t there. It’s a work in progress.

UNIVERSAL TRUTH OF CYCLING #14:

THERE ARE 2 KINDS OF CYCLISTS.

ONES WHO SAY “HELLO” AND ONES WHO DON’T.

Guess it’s pretty obvious which side of this issue we fall on, yeah?

Mountain bikers, you may be excused. Overall you seem to have the kindness thing figured out. Roadies…pull up a chair. This one’s for you.

Here’s the scenario: You’re out on a ride and see a cyclist or few coming toward you. Being a steward of the sport, you greet them as they pass. Sometimes it’s a full on “Hello!” Sometimes it’s a wave. Sometimes it’s just eye-contact and the little lifting of the hand off the bars thing.

Sometimes you get a nice greeting or a wave back. Nice. That small but bonding gesture. Then there are the ones who ice you.

“Hello.”

(silence)

Really? And I’m not talking about the times where they may not have heard you. I’m talking about eye-contact, multiple greetings and…nothing. Sometimes even a scowly-face.

Working on the middle-east crisis, handling the nuclear power plant crisis in Japan, fighting a raging forest fire, fixing a problem at the international space station – these are the kinds of situations where dead-seriousness and scowly faces are completely cool. Understandable. But riding a bicycle on a Sunday afternoon in perfect, Southern Californian weather? Nope.

Why should this bother us? Are we that needy? No. And honestly, most times we just let it roll off our backs. But overall, it’s about manners. When you think about it, technically, people don’t have to say please or thank you. They don’t have to smile at one another. They don’t have to respect one another’s personal space and well-being. But it’s what makes life tolerable. It’s called civility and it’s really, really simple.

Roadies who actively race have the worst track record when it comes to this kind of thing. There’s a certain club on the west side of Los Angeles that has cultivated a culture of acting superior to all others on the road.

Lighten up, fellas.

I love and respect our sport too. Between us, we’ve been doing it at a pretty high level for over 40 years. But we do it because it’s fun. Period. And yes, we race, too. Racing and kindness are not mutually exclusive.

And let’s break it down – we’re both out there putting our next-to-nothing bodies into the mix against multi-ton steel cars on tight roads. Oh, and we’re in form-fitting lycra.

In the great food chain out there on the roads we’re pretty down there. Seems like we need some solidarity.

So as you pass this little online article, let me be the first to wave and say “Hello.”

Like this:

4 am. The department is mostly quite except for the high-pitched wailing coming from room 5. It sounds like a tortured cat. The crying and screaming is enough to compel me to vent a post, even at 4 am. The 20-something sissy-boy making this embarrassing racket suffers from a condition known as Canniboid Hyperemesis Syndrome. Chronic pot smoking, inexplicable cycles of vomiting and crampy belly pain, and strangely, the compulsion to take long, hot showers. My kid in 5 took two tonight.

It has become more common in the last couple years, and it is only going to get worse now that the medical MJ dispensaries are now becoming Hookah lounges. Congratulations Colorado, Reefer is now legal. But what the hell, at least we can tax the hell out of it.

On the cycling apparel front, Alchemist was busy all day yesterday preparing for the holiday season. Sale items and special deals are going down. We are also going to get more wool in. Same classic style, but softer, plusher, cozier, betterer. Won’t have it until the new year, but it will be da bomb.

Alchemist Old School Wool Jersey

Also, it’s final. The reception for the 2013 Team kit was pretty good. Not a lot of folks responded with hate mail, so Paisely-Camo (Pais-mo, as Drew would call it) is a go. it will be from the HOMEGROWN line. Top-shelf, Made in USA, recycled and Blue Sign approved. Pre-order notifications will go out soon. Pre-order/Team discount applies. Some of you already told me you want in. If the rest of you want to reserve one for yourself, give us a shout. Contact us.

It’s Halloween. Instead of sleeping before the shift, I trick-or-treated with the kids. The past two years, we came back to find the unmanned bowl of candy emptied by teenagers (In all fairness, I merely assume they were teenagers, but I haven’t caught them yet). Fantasizing about all the nefarious tactics I could employ to catch the thieves, I finally went back home to check on the candy bowl. Remarkably, it was not empty. My faith in the next generation was restored.

And then I came to work. I’m told there is a rave party going on at the event center down the road. The parade of drunk, acid-tripping youth has been non-stop. Some spitting, some hitting, some just yelling. Some in costume. Remind me to ask for Halloween off next year.